Also Liked: Spotlight, Tales of the
Grim Sleeper, Mountains May Depart, In Transit, Cartel Land, Mad
Max: Fury Road, The Big Short

Some Movies I Haven't Seen Yet: In
Jackson Heights, The Assassin, The Revenant, Hard To Be A God, Son
of Saul, Right Now Wrong Then

Every year at this time, critics wax
rhapsodic about the unprecedented bevy of riches the last twelve
months have showered upon us cinephiles fortunate enough to live in
this age of miracles. That reminds me - you still have time to
contribute to my long-gestating book project: “Every Movie's A
Masterpiece (And Every TV Show Too): The Story of Modern Criticism.”

As usual, I have no idea what they're
talking about, but I'm glad they're having fun. I could fill a list
twice this length with movies rated over 90% on the Tomato Meter that
I either walked out on or deeply regret not walking out on, even the
ones I watched at home. I won't name any. Except for “Room.” And
“Sicario.” But no more. OK, “The Martian.”

But this is the time to focus on the
positive, including the year's pleasant surprises, of which there
were two.

I thought “Unbroken” (2014) was a
serious misfire and after reading the critical savaging of Angelina
Jolie's vanity project “By the Sea” I was tempted to push this
one to the end of the viewing queue or pass on it altogether.
Enthusiastic endorsements from go-to critics Kim Morgan and Sheila
O'Malley persuaded me otherwise, and I thank them both for it. Vanity
project? I guess that's what an achingly sincere story torn right
from an artist's heart gets called when she happens to be a glamorous
international celebrity. Hey, guess what, just because a famous
married couple plays a married couple in a movie doesn't mean it's
about the famous married couple. If this slow burn isn't your cup of
tea I understand, but calling it “indulgent” just makes you look
silly. Besides, you know what I want uniquely talented artists to do?
Indulge!

I didn't really get Rick Alverson's
2012 film “The Comedy,” perhaps because I prefer my Tim Heidecker
in 12-minute doses. But “Entertainment” blew me away, and I'm not
ashamed to admit it's because it felt like a movie made specifically
for me. This is a movie made by (and for) people who don't think that
anything about this culture is OK and are baffled and frustrated that
other people don't see it the same way. I've always liked Gregg
Turkington's stand-up comic alter ego Neil Hamburger, but setting him
on an American journey consisting entirely of crappy hotel rooms and
even crappier clubs en route to the crappiest destination of all, the
Hollywood celebrity scene, is absolutely inspired. Most films that
set out to be provocations wind up somewhere between tedious and
asinine (call it “Fight Club” syndrome). This is the rare
provocation that succeed in being genuinely unsettling. I can't stop
thinking about it.

I got “Gett” from the get-go, one
of the more exasperating entries in the burgeoning field of “Religion
sure can make us stupid” studies. Ronit Elkabetz knocks it out of
the park in the title role, but the supporting cast of Men With
Punchable Faces really makes it an infuriating viewing experience. In
the best way possible.

Most of the rest of my favorites are
from reliable filmmakers who delivered yet again. I voted for Jafar
Panahi of “Taxi” (AKA "Jafar Panahi''s Taxi", AKA "Tehran Taxi") as best actor in the OFCS poll and didn't do it
to be a smartass. Panahi's interpretation of himself as a pleasant if
slightly incompetent cab driver in Tehran is brilliant, employing
fastidious politeness to express rage at institutionalized injustice.
Sylvester Stallone also plays himself (playing Rocky) in “Creed”
for less subversive reasons than Panahi but still to great effect,
the best effect being the way he sets the stage for Michael B.
Jordan's star-solidifying performance in the title role. One of my
favorite oddities in cinema this year – Jordan's Adonis Creed
doesn't want to fight under a name that reminds people of someone
famous. So he boxes as Don Johnson.

Guy Maddin can do no wrong for me, but
“Keyhole” (2011) was slightly less right than his other movies.
“The Forbidden Room,” which Maddin co-directs with Evan Johnson,
is all kinds of right, embodying Maddin's beloved amnesia trope in
its very structure. This movie is designed to make you forget what
happened before – somewhere between the volcano and the dead father
who won't go away, you briefly think, “Hey, weren't we on a
submarine?” But then you forget all over again. Also, greatest
credits ever. Ever ever ever. I demand that every filmmaker shoot
credits this way from here on out.

“Horse Money” isn't quite as good
as any of Costa's unofficial Fontainhas trilogy, but Ventura is a
spectacular performer and there's plenty of room below “Colossal
Youth” (2006) to still be great, and I bet this one gets even
better on a second viewing. Similar story with “The Pearl Button”
which isn't quite on the level of Patricio Guzman's magisterial
“Nostalgia for the Light” (2011) but spins a contemplation of the
relationship between Chilean society and the ocean (via the universe)
into a moving and damning historical survey. It also preserves
Kawesqar language on film. Joshua Oppenheimer's “The Look of
Silence” also isn't quite as great as its prequel “The Act of
Killing” but it seems to be designed to answer the complaints the
dissenting minority had about that previous film. It's still
unforgettable.

Saving the best for last. “No Home
Movie” will count as a 2016 release for “official” purposes but
I'm not really official. Chantal Akerman is gone and this deeply
personal documentary will be her last movie and that's a terrible
thought but it's another great movie from one of the greatest
filmmakers of all time. I'm not ready to say anything more about it
except that Chantal Akerman is irreplaceable and I will always miss
her.

Forget auteur cinema, this is arterial
cinema. When Lady Snowblood strikes with her umbrella sword, blood
spurts out in high-pressure streams, arcing majestically as it
splatters faces, clothing and, most artfully, previously virginal
snow. She didn't choose her name at random, after all.

Adapted from the original manga comic
written by Kazuo Koike (perhaps best known for “Lone Wolf and Cub”)
and penciled by Kazuo Kamimura, “Lady Snowblood” (1973) tells the
tale of its appropriately one-dimensional character who is born for
vengeance. Literally. The film begins with the sound of a crying baby
(who keeps on crying for a long time) born in prison to a mother who
vows that newborn daughter Yuki will carry on her vendetta, then
promptly dies.

The origin story unfolds with relative
efficiency. ' Round about 1870, Yuki's father was murdered by a gang
of petty crooks who also gang-raped her mother. Mom waits patiently
to administer justice to one of her attackers, but the rest remain
free when she is arrested for the murder. After the traumatic birth,
another inmate adopts Yuki and oversees her brutal training at the
hands of a pitiless priest. Told she is an asura (a kind of demon),
Yuki is molded through trial and terror into the relentless killing
machine known as Lady Snowblood and finally set loose on her parents'
tormentors some time in the 1890s.

Actress Meiko Kaji had already made her
mark in “delinquent youth” films such as “Stray Cat Rock: Sex
Hunter” and similarly lurid fare like “Female Convict Scorpion
Jailhouse 41” making her both an obvious and perfect choice for the
title role. Kaji compensates for a lack of apparent martial arts
skill with a calm, commanding presence most forcefully conveyed
through her steely stare – the film features many beautifully
composed images but returns most frequently to a simple closeup of
her piercing eyes and arched eyebrows. Snowblood is a column of
stillness who erupts into controlled lightning strikes, a strategy
that may only be effective when her half-witted opponents oblige by
waiting patiently to be exsanguinated, but, hey, it works, and Kaji
is integral to the success. She also sings the movie's theme song.

Director Toshiya Fujita may not be
known as one of Japan's greatest stylists, but he exploits his
widescreen frame fully, arranging bodies on all sides of the deadly
assassin and letting viewers relish her finely-honed ability to hack
her way through overwhelming odds. The action scenes are heavy on art
direction and careful choreography and low on plausibility, but
you're mostly watching for those geysers of blood.

Snowblood methodically tracks down her
victims in predictable enough fashion, but the story takes a
surprising turn when she encounters a roguish journalist (Toshio
Kurosawa) who, after meeting her, is inspired to publish a story
titled... “Lady Snowblood.” Don't expect the movie to get too
meta, but at least it's the first sign of humor in a story that often
wallows in sadism for its own sake – oh by the way, “Snowblood”
is a Quentin Tarantino favorite and an acknowledged heavy influence
on his “Kill Bill” movies. He even “paid homage” to the theme
song.

“Lady Snowblood” was followed up
quickly by “Lady Snowblood: Love Song of Vengeance” (1974). It
lacks the simple-minded purity of the first film's revenge plot, but
the more free-form narrative takes our deadly heroine in a slightly
different direction. After a decade on the lam as a fugitive,
Snowblood finally tires of fighting (though not before tallying a
double-digit body count in the first five minutes) and surrenders to
the authorities. She is sentenced to die, recruited by the secret
police, and then won over to the cause of her intended mark, a
radical played by Juzo Itami, perhaps best known to Western audiences
today as the director of “Tampopo” (1985).

More hacking, more slashing, though the
arterial sprays are mostly saved for the denouement. An early
two-minute tracking shot may be the stylistic highlight of both
films: Lady Snowblood walks methodically towards the retreating
camera as would-be assassins mass both behind and in front of her,
each eventually lunging to inevitable death by her casual sword
stroke.

Oddly, Lady Snowblood recedes into the
background for most of the sequel as a story of government corruption
and resistance by the disenfranchised people takes center stage. Both
films are set during the Meiji era as Japan transitioned from
feudalism to the beginnings of a 20th century global
empire. Economic miracles benefited only a few, providing Lady
Snowblood the opportunity to serve as a champion of the people,
though neither film explores this aspect of her mission in much
detail. The “people” aren't exactly presented in the most
flattering light either. A grotesque gang of commoners in the first
film prepares to “pass around” Lady Snowblood, and the ersatz
heroes of “Love Song” are more concerned with their own
well-being than with social justice. But, hey, nobody's perfect.

Video:

Both films are presented in their
original 2.35:1 aspect ratios. From Criterion: “These new digital
transfers were created in 2K resolution on a Scanity film scanner
from new 35 mm low-contrast prints struck from the original camera
negatives.” Level of detail isn't as sharp as in many Criterion
high-def transfers and the most notable quality is how pale some of
the skin colors. Checking a few other online sources, Lady Snowblood
doesn't look quite so alabaster from other sources, but it's possible
this is a truer representation of the original – it would make
sense. Unfortunately, I have no way to know. The blackest images (or
parts thereof) look a bit blocky to me, perhaps as a result of some
contrast boosting.

However, while these two transfer may
not be among the elite Criterion 1080p efforts, they are still very
strong overall and with the vivid reds I'm sure its ardent fans
appreciate the most. That ruby red Karo syrup – I mean blood –
sure stands out.

Audio:

Both films have LPCM Mono audio mixes.
The lossless audio is clean throughout though the audio sounds fairly
flat with no real sense of depth – but this may be a product of the
original source as well. Music sounds pretty good. Optional English
subtitles support the Japanese audio.

Extras:

Alas, Criterion has only included a few
interviews and trailers along with the two “Snowblood” films,
both of which are on the same Blu-ray disc.

Under the menu for the first “Lady
Snowblood” you can access the two newly recorded interviews. The
first is with Kazuo Koike (10 min.), writer of the manga from which
the film was adapted. He talks about his inspiration for creating
what was, at the time, an unusual character: a female assassin. The
second interview features screenwriter (Noro Osada) who scripted both
films, the second in collaboration with writer Kiyohide Ohara. Osada
discusses the challenges of adaptation in general and specifically
the challenge in adapting manga, something he had never attempted
prior to “Lady Snowblood.”

You can also watch the original
theatrical trailer (3 min.) for “Lady Snowblood.” The only extra
accessible from the menu for “Lady Snowblood: Love Song of
Vengeance” is also a theatrical trailer (2 min.)

The slim fold-out insert booklet
features an essay by critic Howard Hampton.

Final Thoughts:

I usually find revenge stories tedious
and sometimes outright repellent. I didn't always find the
“Snowblood” films compelling, but the bloody charms mostly exceed
the limitations, in large part thanks to Kaji's serene, iconic lead
performance and an array of lovely widescreen compositions. The
extras are pretty skimpy here, but the high-def transfers are solid.
With two movies on one Blu-ray, this release makes for a pretty solid
deal.

Sunday, December 27, 2015

According to his son Jeff, Haskell
Wexler died peacefully in his sleep yesterday at the age of 93. Like
Alain Resnais and Manoel De Oliveira, Wexler had entered the pantheon
of venerable presences whose shadow loomed so large over the world of
cinema for such a long time that everyone had become accustomed to
assuming he would be around forever. They had always been making
movies, after all. As with Resnais and Oliveira, it comes as a shock
to learn that was only a fantasy.

After serving in the U.S. Merchant
Marine during World War II, Wexler began working as an assistant
cameraman in the late '40s. It was the first step on a path that
would cross virtually every aspect of American cinema during the last
half of the 20th century and into the 21st.

By the '60s, Wexler established himself
as one of the preeminent cinematographers of his or any other
generation. After serving as director of photography on Elia Kazan's
“America, America” (1963) and Tony Richardson's “The Loved One”
(1965), Wexler netted his first Oscar for Mike Nichols' “Who's
Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” (1966). He would win another in 1976 for
his pioneering Steadicam work on Hal Ashby's “Bound for Glory”
after settling for a mere nomination on a little film called “One
Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” the year before.

Lensing many of the landmark
achievements of the '60s and '70s wasn't enough to keep the
politically engaged Wexler fully occupied, however. He would direct
numerous activist documentaries, including “Introduction To The
Enemy” (1974) with Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden, a film potent enough
to get boycotted by The American Legion, a distinction that put
Wexler in the same admirable company as Charlie Chaplin. He remained
almost supernaturally active in recent years, directing “Four Days
In Chicago” (2012), a film about the Occupy Moment's protests at
the 2012 NATO summit, and working tirelessly as cinematographer on
numerous documentaries by other directors.

Wexler's influence extended from
Hollywoood feature film to independent documentary, but cinephiles
may know him best for his visit to one of the points in-between. The
remarkable fiction-documentary hybrid “Medium Cool” (1969) not
only became one of Wexler's primary calling cards, but was also
swiftly embraced as one of the defining films of late-'60s America.
Below, you will find my review of the Criterion Collection's 2013
release of Wexler's masterpiece.

I cannot offhand think of a figure
analogous to Wexler in American cinema. He was a true original, a
force of nature whose legacy we are only just beginning to process.

John (Robert Forster) is a
Chicago-based television news cameraman who loves his job, until he
is forced to confront the reality of it. That's exceedingly difficult
because John has come to rely on the lens as an intermediary agent, a
distorting shield that transforms the world into shots meant to be
captured rather than life meant to be experienced. He wants to
approach his job like his sound man Gus (Peter Bonerz) who views
himself as just “an elongation of a tape recorder” - detachment
as the defining mark of a professional. But it's 1968, and the
bullets that ended the lives of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert
Kennedy have shattered any illusions of journalistic impartiality,
rendered it impossible, or at least profoundly irresponsible, to
remain aloof.

Cinematographer Haskell Wexler (fresh
off an Oscar for “Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”) had no qualms
about diving right into the political and social muck as he prepared
to direct his first feature. Wexler was initially hired by Paramount
to adapt a novel about a boy who found wildlife in New York City
(Jack Couffer's “The Concrete Wilderness”) but scrapped the story
entirely for a film that engaged with more immediate concerns. Wexler
had already worked on a few documentaries and integrated so-called
non-fiction techniques with his fictional material. If there's a
fight between the two, non-fiction wins by a knockout.

John quits his job after finding out
the studio has been giving his footage to the FBI (be vewy quiet,
they're hunting for wadicals) and falls in with relocated West
Virginia war widow Eileen (Verna Bloom) and her ten-year-old son
Harold (Harold Blankenship), both struggling to adjust to life in the
big, bad city. John bonds with Harold; John and Eileen wind up at the
obligatory late '60s psychedelic rock show; they groove at the roller
derby. I last watched “Medium Cool” about fifteen years ago and I
admit I had forgotten almost everything about these parts of the
film. What I remembered was the yellow dress.

As various plot threads unravel, Eileen
winds up searching for Harold in the midst of the protests
surrounding the 1968 Democratic National Convention while John covers
the event from inside the cocoon of the Chicago Amphitheatre. Wexler
and other crew members follow Verna Bloom, decked out in her now
famous yellow dress and staying gamely in character, as she winds her
way through the chanting protesters and the police and National Guard
decked out in riot gear. Narrative concerns recede as the camera
simply tries to track the yellow dress that flits in and out of sight
as the blood begins to flow and tear gas envelops the crowd as well
as the crew, producing the much-discussed shout of “Look out,
Haskell, it's real!” This legendary fourth-wall-shattering warning,
by the way, was not real, but was added in post-production.

Wexler's camera (along with camera
operator Mike Margulies) might not have shaped the events of 1968
(the film wouldn't reach theaters until 1969 – no instant YouTube
uploads), but it has shaped the way the events have been remembered.
As seen in the film, TV news crews, encumbered by their
vehicle-mounted film fortresses, captured only the faintest sense of
what was happening in the crowd as police and guardsmen waged war on
American citizens. Wexler's sprier band of outsiders brought viewers
into the heart and the heat of a shameful moment that now looks like
a rehearsal for Kent State. And as the phrase “brave performance”
is carelessly overapplied by film critics, let's take a moment to
acknowledge that Verna Bloom showed true grit here.

“Medium Cool” deserves a better
fate than to be reduced only to this climactic sequence. There are
other great moments like when a group of black activists wrest
control of an interview from John, the cinephilic name dropping from
Godard to “Mondo Cane,” and Peter Boyle in his first credited
role. But the vibrancy of the actuality footage (including scenes
from National Guard training exercises shown earlier in the movie)
eclipses most of the more traditionally scripted dramatic sequences,
and compensates for a heavy-handed bracketing device that suggests a
sense of closure somewhat out of place in a film defined by ruptures
and chaos.

In a world where camera phones are
ubiquitous and few filmmakers still cling to notions of objectivity
in documentary, perhaps “Medium Cool” really does look dated.
That is if, by dated, we mean pioneering, perceptive, and a vital
capsule of an extraordinary moment in American history. We wouldn't
still be talking about it if it wasn't.

Video:

The film is presented in its original
1.85:1 aspect ratio. The new digital transfer has “been approved by
Haskell Wexler” and this high-def treatment looks fantastic.
There's no mention of a restored print, but the source is obviously
in excellent condition because there is very little damage evident. A
well-preserved thick grain structure gives the film an appropriately
gritty look. When you see just how bad the clips in the Cronin
documentary (an extra on the disc) look you can appreciate this
version all the more.

Audio:

The LPCM Mono track is solid if not
dynamic. Most dialogue is clearly mixed. I believe that much of the
sound in the street scenes was recorded separately from the image or
added in post-production, but the mix still provides the impression
of really being immersed in the moment. Optional English subtitles
support the English audio.

Extras:

Criterion has stacked the deck,
starting with two commentary tracks. The first was recorded in 2001
and features Haskell Wexler, editorial consultant Paul Golding, and
actress Marianna Hill. The second is newly recorded (2013) for this
release and features film historian Paul Cronin.

The disc also includes excerpts from
two Cronin documentaries.

“Look Out, Haskell, It's Real!”
(2002, 53 min.) feels like a complete documentary but is described as
consisting of “extended excerpts.” The documentary includes
interviews with Wexler, author Studs Terkel (a consultant for the
film credited as “Our Man in Chicago”), actors Robert Forster,
Verna Bloom and Peter Bonerz as well as others. Extensive clips from
“Medium Cool” are interspersed with the interviews, and the clips
are badly washed out, but the interviews look fine and provide plenty
of substantive content. Second is a collection of excerpts from
Cronin's 2007 documentary “Sooner or Later” (16 min.), in which
he catches up with Harold Blankenship. Blankenship was a child actor
from West Virginia who never appeared in another movie. He was long
considered “lost” to film history until Cronin found him. This
portrait is vivid and engaging; film fame did not lead to personal or
financial fortune for Mr. Blankenship.

Criterion has also included a new
(2013) interview with Wexler. The interview covers much of the same
ground as seen in Cronin's documentary, but at 15 minutes it's still
worth watching.

“'Medium Cool' Revisited” (33 min.)
is a 2012 documentary in which Wexler returns to Chicago, and also
many of the locations from “Medium Cool,” in order to record
Occupy's protest at the May 2012 NATO summit. I can't say it's as
riveting as “Medium Cool,” but it's a nice addition.

A Trailer (3 min.) rounds out the
collection.

The 16-page insert booklet features an
essay by film critic and programmer Thomas Beard.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

(Originally posted in 2008. Re-posted
in 2015 with substantial revisions.)

Albert Serra’s “Birdsong” (2008)
has been described as the best Spanish film of the past thirty years.
Specifically, Albert Serra has described it as the best Spanish film
of the past thirty years.

I don't know whether Serra's bravado is
sincere or merely part of a very convincing performance act. It also
doesn’t matter one whit. (2015 Update: Seven years later, I'm
pretty sure it's sincere.)

From the first scene of this unique and
extraordinary movie, shot in high-contrast black-and-white digital
video, you know that you are in the hands of a director who has
complete confidence in his mastery of the audio-visual medium.
Serra’s vision is so singular and so intrinsically cinematic it’s
a challenge to describe it in words. To borrow a phrase from the
Hollywood publicity machine, “Birdsong” is a movie event, a full
immersion in the moment, a daredevil plunge into a world that is
simultaneously abstract and so tangibly dense that it can hardly be
penetrated.

If we can’t penetrate it, we can
still talk about it, or at least dance around it. The plot summary is
the easiest part: The Three Wise Men wander through the desert
looking for baby Jesus. Eventually, they find him. Sorry about the
spoiler. It’s the “eventually” that’s the catch, of course.
These three kings of dis-orient have traveled from afar, and they
don’t really know their way around these parts. They aren’t sure
whether or not they should climb a mountain. They change directions
and stop for rest frequently. Fortunately, they aren't in any
particular hurry. Neither is the director.

Serra is fond of the long take. Really
fond of the really long take. The film’s most bravura scene is a
nine-minute long static shot in which the Wise Men trudge off into
the distance, disappear over a ridge, reappear over the next one, and
then begin to walk back towards camera. Or at least they appear to;
it’s difficult to tell. The longer the shot is held, the more
difficult it becomes to suss out what’s going on which is what
makes it so mesmerizing. The desert mirage becomes more hallucinatory
the longer you look at it.

“Birdsong” is also a surprisingly
funny movie. I have no idea whether or not Albert Serra is a Three
Stooges fan, but I couldn’t help make the comparison, especially
because one of them (Lluis Serrat) happens to possess a Curly-esque
figure. In yet another long take, the Magi jockey for comfortable
position as they sleep in close quarters. After debating whether to
move a bit to the left or a bit to the right, our hefty friend shouts
“Spread out!” Nyuk nyuk.

And did you ever think about what the
Magi did after they delivered their gifts to the Christ child? Here,
they just hang around until Joseph is finally forced to resort to the
Biblical equivalent of flicking off the lights. Listen guys, an angel
told me I need to escape to Egypt so, um, could you get going now?
And oh by the way, Joseph is played by Canadian film critic Mark
Peranson who speaks Hebrew while everyone else in the casts speaks
Catalan. Why? Because Peranson doesn’t speak Catalan, silly!

“Birdsong” generates an endless
stream of breathtaking images and each viewer will have his or her
favorites. I keep thinking about a shadowy shot filmed at dawn in
which one of the Wise Men, visibly only as a silhouette, breathes the
chill morning air in and out in little puffs. He almost seems to be
biting at the air. Perhaps he’s praying quietly, or maybe he just
likes seeing his breath evaporate. It doesn’t matter. What matters
is the sheer pleasure afforded by this strange and evocative image.

And pleasure is what “Birdsong” is
all about, specifically visual pleasure. This is for the cinephilic
junky who likes to look and keep on looking. Set free from the
demands of a taditiaonlly suspenseful narrative, viewers don't need
to anticipate the next plot development, the next shot, or ever to
ask the question “Why?” You look for the sheer pleasure of
looking at something pretty and taking the time (a lot of time) to
enjoy it, wallowing in the thrill of witnessing images seldom seen.
These are pictures to be scanned from left to right, top to bottom,
and then back again. In this sense, Serra’s film harks back to the
earliest days of cinema in which, as scholar Tom Gunning has written,
the real power of cinema was not in the telling of a story but rather
the power of “making images seen” entirely for their own sake.
Cinema then was a new way of seeing, which seems relevant to a story
of these proto-Christians, pioneers who were the first to look at the
world through a whole new lens.

Serra’s sublime slapstick won’t
suit everyone’s taste but what worthwhile film does? I have no idea
if “Birdsong” is the best Spanish film of the past thirty years,
but it is certainly the best film I have seen in quite some time and
one that I have not been able to stop thinking about since I saw it
six months ago. I watch movies precisely because every now and then
something like “Birdsong” comes along.

(2015 Update: Seven years later and I'm
still thinking about “Birdsong.” And really disappointed that it
still hasn't gotten a home theater release in North America. I can't
help but think this is the “purest” of all Christmas movies, or
at least in a tie with “A Charlie Brown Christmas.)

Monday, December 21, 2015

(Looking for something a little different to watch this Christmas season? Try this grim holiday treat from Allen Baron.)

Not too many films begin with a
point-of-view shot of the protagonist’s birth, but that’s only
one of many unusual things about Allen Baron’s “Blast of Silence”
(1961).

The opening shot of Allen Baron's
“Blast of Silence” (1961) depicts two births. A distant dot of
light hovers in a pool of inky blackness as the narrator speaks:
“Remembering out of the black silence, you were born in pain.” A
woman screams, a baby cries. The second-person narration, written by
Waldo Salt and delivered by an uncredited Lionel Stander (both
blacklisted at the time), continues, sharing the soundtrack with the
mounting rumble of a train. The distant light grows steadily, tracks
become visible, and as the train bursts out of the tunnel, our
protagonist is “born”again, entering the story as an adult who
now keeps the screams inside.

That protagonist is a plain vanilla hit
man named Frankie Bono (played by director Barron) though the
narrator, constantly haranguing poor Frankie in that gravelly Lionel
Stander voice, probably deserves co-billing. Frankie’s riding the
train into New York for his next job, a straightforward hit on a
mid-level mobster as unremarkable as Frankie. It's just another job
and Frankie has no interest in why he's been asked to do it.

The story, however, is not really about
the hit at all, but how Frankie kills time all alone in the big city,
where most New Yorkers are busily preparing for Christmas, while
waiting for an opportune moment to complete his job. Through the
narrator, we can guess that Frankie has a rich and tormented internal
life, but he seems sadly unaware of it. For Frankie, life’s just a
whole lot of waiting and trying your best not to think about it. “It”
being anything at all.

Arriving three years after Orson
Welles’s “Touch of Evil,” Baron’s film is either a straggler
at the end of the classic film noir period, or one of the earlier
neo-noirs. Film noir was a term applied many years after the noir
cycle began, so it’s unsurprising that critics can’t agree on the
precise timing of each of the noir cycles or even how to define the
genre. Like most noirs, the film’s universe is one that is severed
from any sense of a higher being (at least a benevolent one), a world
covered by only a thin veneer of civilization where even the
slightest mistake, a stumble or a wrong turn, leads inevitably to
tragedy. Frankie was “born in pain” and he lives in pain, always
trying to drown out the scream that heralded his entry into this
cruel world.

For Frankie, the wrong turn comes when
he picks the wrong place to have dinner; an old friend meets him and
insists he attend a Christmas party. At the party, Frankie meets his
old flame Lorrie (Molly McCarthy). This unfortunate encounter stirs
Frankie from his life-long stupor, and prompts him to wonder, for the
first time as an adult, if there’s a way to make meaning out of
this meaningless world. Sorry, Frankie, you’re in a film noir.

Allen Baron was a graphic designer (he
was a comic book artist for a while) who shot his first feature film
entirely on location, then an unusual thing to do though hardly
unprecedented. Baron scraped together financing in various stages
and shot the film piece-meal over two years. His friend Peter Falk
was originally slated for the title role but got a better offer (i.e.
one that paid) so Baron was forced to step into the role. Baron
appears ill-suited to be in front of the camera, which works just
fine since Frankie is ill-suited to be anywhere. Frankie’s very
birth was a mistake, and his continued existence only compounds the
error. He’s a man out of place in every place he goes.

The film takes great advantage of its
New York locations as well as the contrast between Frankie’s
isolation and the communal nature of the Christmas season. Frankie
walks past brightly lit Christmas trees and wanders through crowds of
shoppers, severed from any connection to the people or to the holiday
season. No joy to his world. “Blast of Silence” could just as
easily have been titled with a different oxymoron, “Alone in a
Crowd.”

Another highlight of the film is the
performance by Larry Tucker as the sleazy, obese gun dealer Big
Ralph. Tucker’s massive enough to have his own gravity well, yet so
mousy and insubstantial he could sneak up on you without warning.
Tucker later focused on a writing career (he was nominated for an
Oscar as the co-writer of “Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice”)
but he turned in one more memorable role, as Pagliacci in Sam
Fuller’s madhouse flick “Shock Corridor.”

No matter how many noirs you’ve
watched, I guarantee you’ve never seen anything quite like this
one.

Video:

The film is presented in its original
1.33:1 full-screen aspect ratio. The image is not picture-boxed. The
black-and-white photography looks sharp and beautiful in this
restored transfer. Some evidence of wear and tear from the source is
still visible, but it’s not even the slightest bit of a
distraction.

Audio:

The DVD is presented in Dolby Digital
Mono. Optional English subtitles support the English audio. Stander's
pervasive narration comes through loud and clear and the sound design
has an appropriately hollow quality to it.

Extras:

“Requiem for a Killer” is a
60-minute documentary featuring Baron as he revisits the filming
locations of “Blast of Silence.” This feature is a 2006
assemblage by film historian Robert Fischer who uses footage from a
1990 West German TV documentary about Baron combined with new
interview material.

“Locations Revisited” is a series
of still photos that, well, revisit NYC locations. It’s a bit of a
repeat of the material in “Requiem.”

The disc also includes a fairly
extensive collection of on-set Polaroids (about 40 in all) with
captions from Baron’s own descriptions written on the back of the
photos.

The slim eight page insert booklet
features an essay by film critic Terrence Rafferty. Criterion has
also included an additional insert, a 4-page mini comic book by
artist Sean Phillips (artist of the recent smash-hit Marvel
mini-series “Marvel Zombies.”)

Final Thoughts:

After a promising film debut, Allen
Baron went on to a career in television, directing episodes of a host
of well-known 60s and 70s shows, including “Kolchak: The Night
Stalker,” “The Dukes of Hazzard,” and even “Charlie’s
Angels.” That only makes “Blast of Silence” even more of an
anomaly, a bizarre one-off that is quintessentially noir while not
particularly resembling many other noirs. It’s not a masterpiece,
but it’s damned interesting and even an under-the-radar Christmas
film if you're not too wedded to the “Merry” part of “Merry Christmas.”